


nos felix quod hoc fecit

by Marvelgeek42



Series: fabulas fundatoris [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bear - Freeform, Gen, Helga's brother Hjort, M/M, Mi'kamq | L'nu'k, Non British Hogwarts Founders, Viking Helga, okay so i am tagging this at 3 am it is possible i missed something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 23:05:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marvelgeek42/pseuds/Marvelgeek42
Summary: A falcon is a great thing to be; Huritt delights in it. His eyes can perceive so many more colors in this form, even if some of it has carried over to his human form. It is a great privilege as a hunter and fisherman. It means he can take care of his own, and his abilities as puoin only add to that.





	nos felix quod hoc fecit

**Author's Note:**

> This does not fit with the previous parts of this verse.  
> But I like this version more.
> 
>  
> 
> A few clarifications:
> 
> First, Huritt is Godric. His name got mangled over time in my personal headcanon. Similary, Helga Authulfsdottierbecame Hufflepuff over time. The English language is a mess, this is more than believeable to have happened.
> 
> Secondly, I think I did a decent job with the research into Mi'kamq/L'nu'k society, but improvent is always possible. I did my best, but I in no way claim that everything is historically accurate. The vikings were definitely in the region the Mi'kamq/L'nu'k were at the time, or at least close enough to strech this.
> 
> Lastly, the translations for the Agolquian and the Icelandic (which to my knowledge, is the closest modern language to old Norse) should be at the bottom and as a hover translation. I did my best with them, should you know better, please inform me of how to correct it.

Huritt is not someone who will stand back in fear, no, far from it. He is the one to challenge the saqmaw of his tribe, a cruel man by the name of Tihkoosue whose name adequately sums up his lack of morals, when he started to threaten them with magic. It is _him_ , who decides to stand up and say _no more_.

It doesn’t even matter that he lost, in the end. It doesn’t matter that his obvious proof of Tihkoosue’s wrongdoing is treated as inferior to the saqmaw’s power. What does it matter, being ostracised, being lectured by the very man he had fought against, when it only gave him more reasons to leave? Why would he want to stay, when his tribe is suffering from a saqmaw who either cannot or will not perform his tasks, such as redistributing wealth properly?

Most in his situation would have left for a few weeks, maybe some months, at most a year. Huritt, however, is a man who commits. He gathers a few things, puts them in his bag, transforms into his falcon form. It is his spirit animal — and transforming an ancient practice — and in this form, he grabs the bag and flies away.

A falcon is a great thing to be; Huritt delights in it. His eyes can perceive so many more colors in this form, even if some of it has carried over to his human form. It is a great privilege as a hunter and fisherman. It means he can take care of his own, and his abilities as puoin only add to that. 

He flies. Higher, ever so slightly higher, letting Glooscap lead him to safety. It is a wonderful feeling, to simply let the winds lead you, to see all the creations of Khimintu from above.

And then he hears a cry of pain.

Huritt is a puoin, a sorcerer, and he has to say that he prefers healing over injuring by a significant margin, so he reacts immediately.

He flies a circle, his eyes searching the ground below him for the origin of the cry. It doesn’t matter if it is a L’nu’k or not that is in pain. He is on his own now; he has to rely on no one’s judgement but his own.

He breaks his circle as he finds the origin of the continued cry. Within a few seconds, that very person becomes visible behind a tree.

There is a man lying on the ground, clutching his somewhat torn right arm with his left, while a woman with multiple braids among her still mostly loose hair is fending off a Black Bear with a spear in her right hand. It is decorated in a way that is completely unfamiliar to Huritt. Their clothing — it is mostly the green of the forest, the brown of the currently unfrozen ground, and light shades of gray —  is woven, cut, and dyed in a way he has never seen before, just as their skin seems oddly pale.

Deciding to bother with those things later, Huritt dives down, swiftly turning back into his human form shortly before he hits the ground, picking his bag up and hanging it around his shoulder as he does.

The woman — who seems to have the bear situation under control — shouts a few sentences that tell Huritt absolutely nothing. The language is another thing he isn’t familiar with, it turns out. Hers comes more out of the throat than his.

He scrambles his brain for a way to signal that he’s here to help, as his sudden appearance causes the woman to hectically look between him at the bear, as if trying to figure out who to take out first.

“Nidijinikaz Huritt,” he speaks, indicating himself. “Wìdòkàzowin oma.” He lowered his head and motioned to the man on the ground. He looks similar enough that the two of them cannot be anything but family.

The woman frowns at his words, before a look of understanding passes on her face. “"Mitt nafn er Helga. Helga Authulfdottir. Þetta er bróðir minn, Hjort. Ég vona að þú hefur ekki huga að því að gera þetta,” she says, as the bear decides to retreat. She kneels and writes something in the ground. “Can you understand me now?”

“Yes, I can!” Huritt exclaims in surprise. “How do you manage this?”

“It’s a spell,” she replies. “A temporary one, I admit.”

“I know that much,” Huritt answers, before shaking his head. “I should focus on healing… Hjiot?” Going by the wince of the man, Huritt has either gotten the name wrong in some fashion or at the very least mispronounced it. Or maybe he is simply wincing because of the pain. That is also a possibility.

“If the two of you are fine with it, that is,” Huritt adds after a moment.

“Yes,” is the first word Huritt hears the other man speak. And he has to say, that man has a very nice voice.

Looking properly at the man for the first time since his arrival, he notices that the man in general looks very nice. It is then that Helga repeats his name. Hjort. How is he supposed to pronounce this?

Huritts should probably stop falling in love so quick, he notes as he gets to work. It’s not a difficult wound; the loss is probably the worst thing about it. That, combined with Huritt’s experience and his well stocked collection of herbs, means that he’s done within a minute or two, during which he listens to the siblings mock each other.

Helga literally disappears for a moment — where have these people learned such things? — and returns from the sky. She is in a strange contraption pulled by cats of all things.

Which okay, sure, why not. These strange people have surprised him enough, they might as well continue to do so.

“Will you be joining us, Hurick?” Hjort asks hopefully as his sister lands in front of them.

He can’t tell if it is a deliberate mispronunciation, but Huritt figures that since he has not managed to get the hang of Hjort’s name, he shouldn’t demand such from the other man.

It’s only after he decides that that he realizes that there had been a question asked and both siblings are looking at him, clearly awaiting an answer.

Should he join them? On the one hand, they’re not L’nu’k. They’re strangers, from no tribe Huritt has ever heard of. How is he to know what to expect?

On the other hand, exactly that. It will be new and exciting. Plus, that would really be committing to his banishment, wouldn’t it?

Not to forget that Hjort is more than good looking. That is honestly one of the main arguments.

“Yes, I will,” he replies, climbing onto the flying chariot with the siblings. They leave the ground a mere second after.

“Aren’t I lucky that you happened to fly here today,” Hjort says softly as the three of them fly through the sky. He is doing his best to look at his eyes as he does so.

"I would say so,” Huritt replies.  “For one thing, I'd never have met you. Based on what I gather, Helga not exactly good at healing." 

Hjort chuckles. “She’s a bit more than not good.”

“I can throw you from the chariot anytime,” Helga reminds them.

**Author's Note:**

> saqmaw - a chief, chosen by prestige  
> puoin - a soceror  
> L'nu'k - means something like 'human'. What the Mi'kamq called themselves pre-Europeans  
> Glooscap and Khimintu - gods. The former of the L'nu'k people, the latter of creation.  
> Nidijinikaz Huritt - My name is Huritt  
> Wìdòkàzowin oma - I'm here to help  
> Mitt nafn er Helga. - My name is Helga.  
> Þetta er bróðir minn, Hjort. - This is my brother, Hjort.  
> Ég vona að þú hefur ekki huga að því að gera þetta - I hope you don't mind me doing this


End file.
